


Venom

by StellaC



Series: Love Actually [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaC/pseuds/StellaC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hated the man with the fire of a thousand suns. And it wasn't just because of jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venom

He hated the man with the fire of a thousand suns.

It wasn’t just because of the fact that they entered the university in the same year, yet the bastard was promoted to associate professor much earlier than him. No, it was more than that.

It wasn’t just because the jerk got to become the Chair of the Department of History. It wasn’t just because the twat had more papers published than him. It wasn’t just because the dickhead’s books sold better than his. And it wasn’t just because the students, those ignorant, stupid little buggers loved the arsehole and his laughable charisma.

_Oh no, it was way more than that._

It had to do with the condescending and patronizing air of his whenever he so much as looked at the wanker. He would give him a little knowing and meaningful smile, no matter what he did, even when he was calling him names and lashing out his rage towards him with the most venomous words he could ever think of.

It was as though that son of a bitch had been wearing a mask, a ridiculous smiling mask that he wanted nothing more than to break and destroy.

Haytham concluded that he was obsessed. He also predicted that he would eventually end up sleeping with that Bane of His Existence. Charles reckoned he was just fucking with him.

He wanted nothing more than seeing the fool whimper and beg under his wrath, and admit that yes, he had wronged him and he was willing to pay.

Well, maybe Haytham did have a point. He was a little, a tiny bit obsessed with the twit. But it was perfectly normal. Nothing unusual about that.

 

It was Friday night, and Charles was feeling particularly agitated. He just spent three hours grading what he considered sorry excuses of history essays. He was desperately in need of a drink. Preferably single malt Scotch.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t find anyone to accompany him and listen to his complaints. Haytham was most likely consorting with that little hussy of his, who was taking up too much of his attention, as far as Charles was concerned. Thomas would be too busy getting shit-faced with some bimbo to feel sympathetic towards his friend’s misery. William was dying trying to catch the deadline of his upcoming book on some Mohawk tribe. And last time he checked, John was still overseas on certain secret military mission.

That was why he, Charles Lee, a successful academic and a golden bachelor/divorcee, was slouching on his barstool, nuzzling his whiskey, and absentmindedly listening to the people around him.

He needed to stop moping around. He needed to do something about his miserable life. He needed to get to its root.

Which was a certain demonic man of his obsession, the reincarnation of Lucifer himself.

He gulped his drink, feeling the pleasant burning sensation down his oesophagus, and the blood rushing towards his head.

His drunken mind decided he needed to go to the man’s place and show him what he really meant. So he tossed twenty bucks on the counter, got off the stool, and swayed his way out of the bar.

 

It took him exactly forty-five seconds to answer the door. And he was in his silk pyjamas and slippers, looking all comfortable.

And Charles was on a mission to crush his comfort.

“Charles?” said his nemesis. “What are you doing here?”

Strangely enough, he actually looked pleasantly surprised.

“’m here ta d’stroy chu,” slurred Charles, with a silly solemnness. Then he pushed pass the monster, and strutted towards the living room.

“Huh?” His archenemy turned to stare at him with great confusion, though he did close the door and stalk after him.

The TV was on, showing _not the same_ sit-com that Charles loved to watch. A bowl of half-eaten salad and half a glass of orange juice was on the coffee table. Curse him and his healthy diet!

“Charles, are you alright?” Bah, the git dared to have the bloody gall to feign concern, as though he actually cared. “You look drunk.”

“’m not!” shouted Charles, swinging his fist up the air. “You’ll pay fo what cha did!”

“You’re not making sense.” The enemy was closing in on him. A pair of hands fell onto his shoulders, pushing him towards the leather sofa. “Sit. I’ll get you some water.”

He would not be manipulated by this devil. He would not accept his charity either. So he resisted Sauron’s iron grip, and head-butted him.

“Ow!” The Dark Lord let go of him, and started rubbing his throbbing forehead instead. Charles grinned with dark satisfaction.

“Beg for mercy, y’ fool!” He shouted triumphantly, and reached to grab the Evil Queen’s face. “Kneel!”

“That’s quite enough!” The Wicked Witch of the West held both of his arms in place. But he wouldn’t give up that easily. So he struggled, and managed to tumble both of them onto the sofa.

“Will you…just…calm…yourself…” No, he wouldn’t! And he wouldn’t let Darth Vader of all people win!

Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s ugly and distorted face was right in front of his eyes, irritating him to no end. And he knew how vulnerable the human face was. Since he couldn’t use his arms at the moment, the next logical course of action would be to use his mouth, right?

So he bucked and lunged forward with all the strength he had, and tried to bite off King Claudius’ face. But Dracula snapped his head and tried to dodge. As a result, their teeth clashed loudly, and their lips followed.

Moriarty opened his mouth in surprise, but Charles took the chance and jammed his tongue in. They started to wrestle for dominance, their tongues warring. Grendel’s iron grasp tightened, as he was trying to swallow every drop of Charles’ saliva. Charles had this odd sensation in his lower abdomen, as if someone had set a fire in it, and his hands stopped fighting and started to wander, feeling the warmth underneath the fine fabric.

Mr. Hyde suddenly stood up, and dragged Charles towards his secret torture chamber. Charles started to panic, and he twisted and writhed within his gilded cage. But then his knees fell onto something soft and smelled like sunlight. And he realized he was straddling the Terminator, who was looking at him with that weird gleam in his eyes.

“You…”

Charles didn’t wait for damned Iago to finish his poisoned words or catch his breath, and bit his mouth again with deadly precision. To his amazement, however, his assault was met with zero resistance. Rather, the quiet groan beneath him even suggested that the Wicket Witch of the Candy House was enjoying it. No, that wasn’t the reason why he was here. So he withdrew, and planned for his next attack.

“Why are you…Why are you here, Charles?” asked the Big Bad Wolf, grasping for air.

“’m here ta make chu s’ffer,” said Charles, wanting to feel the self-righteous anger but failed miserably. He was getting rather hot, and distracted by the growing bulge underneath him. The friction was too good to ignore. He ground his hip experimentally, which earned him a delicious moan from the Siren.

That was the last thing his alcohol-infused mind could remember, before he was drown by poison, and lust. There were fragments, of the desperate need of get rid of his clothes, of the heat of naked flesh, of the painful and exhilarating tightness and warmth, and of the explosion of stars inside him.

 

_Something was wrong._

That was the first thing came to his mind when he woke up surrounding by unfamiliarity.

He could feel the smoothness of the duvet brushing his bare flesh, and it was weird. He turned to look towards his side, and was astonished to find the source of his misery sleeping soundly and peacefully.

_Oh Lord._

He looked under the duvet, and was welcomed by two naked bodies, limps tangled together.

He sucked in a sharp breath, then untangled himself as discreetly as possible.

Holy shit! That must be some kind of nightmare! He must be dreaming!

He pinched himself on the face, and almost yelped. So it wasn’t a dream.

So he was completely fucked.

…Or it was the other way around.

But it didn’t matter! He had committed the most unforgivable sin by his book. It might as well be treason, as far as he was concerned.

He dug through his discarded clothes on the floor, and found his phone. As he was fleeing the feculent bedroom, he fumbled with the little thing, and hoped as hell that Haytham was awake.

 

His eyes widened in horror as he hung up the phone and turned around.

The blasted man was standing right there, without a hint of clothing, as if it was completely natural. Despite himself, his eyes betrayed him and casted downward, locking upon the body part that he had been so fond of the night before. It was dangling freely at the moment. And it was annoyingly fascinating.

“What were you doing?”

Charles snapped out of his penis-induced trance, and said in an unusually sharp voice, “Nothing! I was just…!”

The Thorn in His Bollocks dared to give him a bloody smile. “Thank you,” he said. “Last night was –”

“A gigantic mistake that will never happen again!” Charles interrupted him hastily.

“No, it wasn’t.” The stupid idiot appeared to be hurt. And Charles felt someone just gave his heart a rather harsh squeeze. “At least the sex was great.”

Charles had to shut his eyes so as to stop himself from looking at the wicked seducer, and reiterate loudly, “A gigantic mistake –”

He was replied by an evilly innocent smile. “The sex was great.”

“That will never happen again. Ever.”

His Apple of Eden shrugged nonchalantly. “But the sex was great.”

Charles' eyes snapped open. “Don’t you understand?” he shouted, like a drowning man desperate to hold on to something solid. “We’re nemeses. We weren’t supposed to get into each other’s pants!”

“Not when the sex really was great.”

He came this close to stomp his feet. _This close._ “Is this the only thing you know how to say?”

“And I actually quite like you,” said His Lustful Sin.

Charles _did not_ gape. He did not, even though it was the last thing he had expected to hear at that moment.

“Are you mad?” He felt compelled to ask, because he just couldn’t bring himself to believe his ears.

“And I think you like me too.”

His Beautiful Temptation reached out to caress his cheek. And he had to refrain himself from leaning into the touch.

“I most certainly do not.” That came out awfully unconvincing.

His Delicious Desire just gave him a knowing smile, and let his hand stay. “Whatever you say, Charles. Whatever you say.”

“I –” He swallowed hard, and forced himself to make an attempt to flee. “I need to use your shower.”

Nimble fingers circled around his wrist, making him stop and turn.

“And I’m coming with you,” said his lover.

**Author's Note:**

> George and Haytham would get along splendidly. And Charles and Connor can form a support group called "My Boyfriend Is A Little Shit." XDDD


End file.
